Hijab

The hijab I wear makes me conspicuous on the streets of Paris. When a Frenchman spits in my face, I recoil - angry and humiliated.

The nearby police listen to my report as if I caused the incident, as if I were deserving of injustice. They look at my hijab as if it is the uniform of the team of their opponent.

Why don’t you wipe the steady stream of tears with the fabric that covers the crown of your head and your ears?

I can’t believe what I hear.

You’re lucky the cloth can wipe off the saliva he spread trickling down your chin.

I am a Muslim within and without.

Where is the compassion for Muslims in France?

Marginalized, we are considered different.

The hope of empathy, minimal. The focus instead on assimilation. The possibility of equality, I doubt.

I walk to a mosque and cleanse myself with the waters of wudu, ritual ablutions.

I make salah and pray so long that my ankles shake.

Ya Allah, Rabbi, how do I show patience?

I seek Your mercy and comfort.

Part the waters of oppression, for they are raging.

Whether you wear a kippah, netela or hijab, you cover as a sign of modesty.

Each one of us can say there is a covenant between God and me.

The same man who accosted me spat on the face of my sister, an Ethiopian Jew. What would his insensitive soul do if facing the Countenance of Allah, the Lord of all creation? Without intimately knowing his story, I wonder if he would be loving by recognizing we come from the same source and possibly share a similar destination. In every nation, I hear the voices of people protesting until they become hoarse.

Without compassion, we follow the poorest course.

Guide us on the Straight Path.

Open the heart of Islam. Let us make the wisest choice. Open the heart of Islam. We love, because You taught us love and hate purely for Your sake. What I pray for is a clean slate.